


A Night at Three Trout Pond

by threeparts



Series: Fenny Lavelly and the Art of Shooting People in the Face [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Fishing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I mean, UST, that's basically it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:43:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeparts/pseuds/threeparts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bull had read Varric’s book and talked to the others about the Champion, hearing the same the stories everyone knew: the battle with the Qunari, the fights in the Deep Roads, the explosion at the Chantry. It was all impressive, but the boss was already shaping up to match it, if Haven and Redcliffe were any indication. So why did the weary, plain-looking woman from Kirkwall worry Lavellan so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night at Three Trout Pond

For all that Crestwood was a miserable little town beset by bandits and undead, it hadn’t been a _bad_ trip across Ferelden. Okay, yeah, undead meant demons, which meant the eerie glow in the middle of the lake wasn't just some seasonal algae weirdness, and that was going to be a pain in the ass to deal with, but the rest of it? That was _easy_ , even in the rain and the sticky, clinging mud, and the locals needed the help. The ragtag Crestwood militia had let out a cheer when they'd seen the Inquisitor and her crew sweep up behind the undead assaulting the town gate, and the promise of further aid raised the spirits of the whole village. The cool, wet summer hadn't done much for their crops, and the corpses rising from the lake were not the haul the fishermen had hoped for. It felt good to be helping people who desperately needed it—even if undead and bandits were a little outside the Inquisition’s purview—and lending a hand to a town that the Fereldan crown had been ignoring was the perfect cover to see what the Champion of Kirkwall had been up to.

  


So, Bull had wondered as they hiked through the Crestwood countryside, why had Lavellan been so damn _miserable_ for the last week? Yeah, the idea that they might have to close a rift from a boat while surrounded by demons was fucking awful, but the boss had been edgy since before they’d even seen the lake.

They’d left Redcliffe on a high note, feted in the town after bringing back word that the huge high dragon nearby was no longer a threat. That fight was going to keep Bull warm at night for a long time to come—he and the grim-faced Seeker charging at the massive beast, ducking between her legs and dodging the fire she spat while Solas threw up barriers and Varric and the boss provided ranged support—and the night in the tavern afterwards had also given him plenty to ponder. The boss had been giddy from more than just drink, her eyes wide and shining as they’d talked together late into the night, long after the others had wandered upstairs to bed.

It had been a great start to their trip up north, but ever since they’d rounded Lake Calenhad and struck out across the Bannorn, her mood had dropped. She’d been quiet around the camp fire at night, and her scouting reports had been brief—informative but impersonal—before she slipped off on her own again.

And that part was weird too. They’d departed Crestwood three days before, checking on the situation at Caer Bronach before setting across the farmlands to meet with Hawke, and Lavellan had been sticking close to the rest of her companions since—something that was unusual enough that even Blackwall had mentioned it. Usually she would have taken off at the first opportunity to scout ahead, ranging miles around the group as they travelled and checking in every few hours to let them know what lay ahead. Since they’d left town she’d been reluctant to wander more than a mile or so from the others. The boss had shrugged off Blackwall’s comment, pulling her coat tighter around herself and not even bothering to come up with an excuse. Bull supposed he should be happy she was making his job as her bodyguard easy for once, but the change bothered him.

She was nervy about something. Shoulders tense while she walked, ears up and alert, fidgety—tugging at the straps on her pack or adjusting her armour, hands curling into fists one moment, then clutching at the sleeves of her coat. But over bandits and undead? Nah. Shit, fighting seemed to make her feel better, not worse. The frequent lightning storms made them all jumpy, yeah, but it’d been worse in the mire three months back, and Lavellan had come out of that okay. It wasn’t the same sort of anxious that had the Seeker pacing in camp or muttering under her breath, either. Cassandra had been furious when he, Varric and the boss had slipped off down to Redcliffe to meet Hawke away from prying eyes, but she’d cooled off since. These days she was more worried about getting tongue-tied in front of the Champion than about what they might learn from this Warden they were supposed to meet. Come to think of it, Lavellan had been tense during that first meeting too. At the time Bull had written it off as apprehension about going behind the Seeker’s back and self-consciousness about her new title of Inquisitor, but now it looked like there might be more to it.

  


Stomping the last stake into the ground around the tent he shared with Varric, Bull glanced around the camp as he retrieved his pack. It was late afternoon, and even with the overcast skies they had plenty of light left, but the boss liked to stop and have the camp set up well before dark. It almost made up for the way she insisted on painfully early mornings. The site she’d picked out wasn’t bad—close to fresh water and snug between two cliff faces, one with enough of an overhang that even if it started raining again most of their gear would be out of it. They were a couple of miles out from where they were to meet Hawke, far enough away that camping here wouldn’t give away their plans for tomorrow.

Blackwall and Solas were still putting their own tent up, while the Seeker and Lavellan already had theirs pitched in the driest part of the overhang. Two women would usually share, but the glow from the boss’s mark got brighter when she dreamed, and Sera had already admitted that it was too weird to sleep next to her. Looked like the Seeker felt the same, and ever since Haven went all to shit Lavellan had been sleeping on her own.

Searching through his pack for his whetstone, Bull watched the women. Cassandra was bent over a small fire, trying to coax the flames from dry kindling to damp twigs. Lavellan was going over the game she’d shot while travelling—they’d left a lot of their food supplies behind with the town, and her habit of taking potshots at anything that was edible had been useful while they were on the move. She was absorbed in the task, her movements quick and practised as she hung dead birds on a makeshift rack. She was frowning, and with her hair pulled back from the sharp angles of her face and her dark brows drawn together she looked far more severe than he’d become used to. Full lips pressed together, long ears raised too high and, yeah, muscle working in her jaw. Definitely unhappy.

  


Bull leaned against a crumbling wall—their camp site looked as though it had once been part of an old sheep pen, probably for one of the abandoned farmhouses they’d passed earlier—and unsheathed one of his short swords. The blade had been chipped during an earlier fight, and Bull ran it across the sharpening stone as he watched the others. Blackwall was on edge too, though more reluctant than nervous. Because they were going to meet another Warden? He wasn’t being straight with the Inquisition about _something_ , but Bull hadn’t been able to figure out what angle the man was playing. Blackwall didn’t read as a threat, he had no stakes in the organisation, and his treaties were the real deal, but there was something off in the way he acted. He seemed genuine enough about helping them, so Bull had filed away the bits that didn’t make sense and put it aside until he had more to work with. This other Warden had him worried, and that was _interesting_. Varric was in as good a mood as Cassandra—whatever reluctance the boss had about seeing Hawke again, neither of them shared it. And Solas, well, it sounded like he disapproved on Wardens on principle, but he wasn’t bothered by the idea of meeting another one.

Bull had his own reasons for being cautious about Hawke—you didn't screw with a woman who'd taken down the Arishok with no help but her dog, mage or not—but while she’d been wary of him when they’d met in the Redcliffe tavern, she hadn’t been nasty about it. And, hell, he’d been surprised that she’d seemed so normal. If anything she’d looked _tired_ , with lines around her eyes and grey in her hair. Sure, he’d read Varric’s book and talked to the others about the Champion, hearing the same the stories everyone knew: the battle with the Qunari, the fights in the Deep Roads, the explosion at the Chantry. It was all impressive, but the boss was already shaping up to match it, if Haven and Redcliffe were any indication. So why did the weary, plain-looking woman from Kirkwall worry Lavellan so much?

Running a thumb over the edge of his blade, Bull grunted in satisfaction and slipped it back in its sheath. Cassandra had enlisted Solas’s aid in getting the fire burning and Lavellan had volunteered to collect more wood, but it was still too early to start preparing the evening meal. Varric was already looking around the camp hopefully, a deck of cards in his hand. Bull’s mouth twitched and he ambled over to the fire, stretching as he gave a bored sigh—a perfect invitee to a round of Diamondback. Ten minutes later, after he, Varric, and Blackwall had pulled some large rocks free from the stone wall and were sitting comfortably by the fire, cards in hand, Bull said, “So I’m calling bullshit on that fight with the Arishok. No way just one mage could have taken him down. How’d Hawke really do it?” and Varric was off, eager to defend his best friend’s honour.

  


Two hours later Bull hadn’t learned nothing new—Varric wasn’t keen to talk about any of Hawke’s less heroic moments, asserting his right as a storyteller to skip to the good bits—but he was up seventy silver and Blackwall had brought out a bottle of malt whisky, so he counted it as an overall win. Cassandra had been listening in, even if she refused to play, and Solas had retreated to his tent. It was still a while before sunset, but the clouds hanging low and grey overhead dulled the light, making it seem later. Bull glanced around the camp. “Where’d the boss wander off to?” he asked, draining his cup.

“She said that she was going fishing,” answered Cassandra. “I offered to help, but she didn’t seem to be in the mood for company.”

“Ah, right.” Bull turned down the next round, citing a need to piss. Varric’s stories weren’t getting him anywhere new, so it was time to switch tactics. He stretched and got to his feet, keeping the frown from his face. Lavellan had been picking off game for the last few days, and they had more than just the rack of birds she’d hung earlier. He glanced over at the supply packs, which had been nearly empty when they’d left Crestwood. Now they had meat she’d smoked over the last couple of nights, bread and biscuits she’d been baking each morning, and they still had plenty of bandages and potions… but she’d been collecting rashvine earlier in the day, and now she’d gone fishing. They were in no danger of running out of food, so either she _really_ wanted to help Crestwood, or she was doing what she always did when she was worried, which was _everything_. It was getting stupid. Lavellan would rather work herself until she dropped than just admit that something was bothering her. Bull eyed the others for a moment—Varric was describing Aveline Vallen’s courtship, and Blackwall was laughing as Cassandra leaned forward, totally engrossed—then sauntered over to the path that lead back down the slope.

  


Lavellan was on the rocks overlooking the lake, a spool of fishing line in her hand. She cut a lonely figure standing up there, outlined against the grey sky, and Bull took a moment to watch her while she still thought she was alone. She’d changed before leaving the camp, shedding her armour in favour of loose, calf-length breeches and a linen shirt, and a pair of ankle wraps that were the closest she came to shoes when they weren’t travelling or fighting. A scarf was tied around her waist, half hiding the knife and sling on her belt, and her dark hair was free from its braid, blowing around her face in the breeze coming off the water. It was a good look, one Bull filed away for more private examination, but they had already run into trouble out here. A couple of bandits might not be a problem if she saw them first, but she really should have left her armour on if she was going to go off on her own.

He started forward again, not bothering to hide his approach, and watched her ears flick back at the sound of his footsteps, her posture tensing. She glanced behind her and relaxed again when she saw him, though she said nothing.

“Caught anything yet?” he asked, clambering up onto the rocks.

“Few perch,” she replied, eyes back on the water. It wasn’t much, but at least she’d replied instead of just pointing at the bucket where he could see the four silvery-green fish for himself.

“After two hours? You might be losing your touch.” Bull lowered himself onto a ledge to her side, where he had a good view of both her and anyone approaching. The rock was still wet from the earlier rain, and he shifted uncomfortably as he felt the dampness soak through his trousers.

Lavellan shrugged. “Took a look around first.”

“See anything interesting?”

“Nah.” She twiddled with the line in her hands, then said abruptly, “Don’t like that lyrium we passed earlier.” It wasn’t much, but at least she was making an effort at conversation.

“Think there might be templars in the area?” he asked.

“Mm. Might be. Weird place for it to just show up.”

“Right. Haven’t seen any of that shit since Redcliffe.”

She nodded, shifting from foot to foot, but didn’t reply, and after a moment Bull asked, “You want to check it out?”

“Yeah. But after we—” She broke off, jaw flexing for a moment before continuing, “We should deal with the lake first. It’ll be easier for everyone once that rift’s closed.”

“Sure. Clear out a fort full of bandits, drain an entire lake, fight through a flooded town of undead, explore some caves, close a rift surrounded by demons,” he counted out each step on his fingers. “You’re right, dealing with any of Corypheus’s guys after that will be a piece of cake.”

She actually glanced over at him then, a brief smile tugging at her lips. “Now you know why I like to stop early. We’ll need our sleep.”

He grinned back at her. “Demon-infested lake, boss. Don’t know about you, but I haven’t been sleeping so great since we got here.”

“No?” Lavellan began winding her line back in. “We’ll have to find some more bandits to tire you out.”

“Eh, bandits aren’t much of a challenge. These ones are scrappy, I’ll give ‘em that, but they’ve had no training in fighting together.” Bull watched her examine the empty hook before re-baiting it with something pulled from the folds of her scarf. “Besides, I can think of better ways to exhaust myself.”

“Yeah, you could always get into another fistfight with a pissed-off druffalo,” she said drily. “The one outside Lothering lasted longer than any of these bandits put together.”

“Bulls _are_ known for their stamina.” He grinned at her, but she didn’t even look over. “ _And_ we had steak the whole way up here.”

“If you’re that hard up for a good night’s sleep, there are a few wild ones roaming around near the main road,” said Lavellan, throwing her line back into the water with a little flick that sent it far beyond the reeds below her. “People in town would probably be grateful for the meat.”

“I’m hard up all right, but wrestling with another one of those things isn’t at the top of the list. Maybe if I had something smaller and less likely to leave me with a full set of bruised ribs.” Her ears twitched at that, and she shifted her weight to the other foot.

“Next time you should probably try to stay on top. I didn’t expect you to wind up flat on your back so fast.” The wind was blowing her hair in her face, making it hard to read her expression, but there was a slight flush rising in her ears.

Lavellan had tried flirting with him before, back when the Chargers had first signed on and she was just another agent, albeit the only one who could close rifts. Her attempts had been clumsy and self-conscious, like lines she’d memorised from a cheap novel, and after a few deflections and a studied lack of interest on Bull’s part she’d given up trying. She was an attractive woman and good company, and he probably would’ve gone for it under other circumstances, but his orders from the Ben-Hassrath meant that getting involved with the Herald could have ended... messily. For them both. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d had trouble finding other company in the Inquisition.

She hadn’t brought it up since, but there had been hints that whatever interest she had in him still lingered. The way she watched him sometimes, or sought out his company. Conversations where a word could have been said in friendship or as a joke, or could have meant more. He’d never hit on her before, and the sudden attention seemed to have thrown her off balance.

And, well. Those Ben-Hassrath orders no longer applied.

“Next time I’ll know to take it from behind,” he replied. “Give it a good pounding and leave it reeling. It’d come back for more, but I’d have the upper hand. Once I get a good grip on all that hair I could have it on its knees in no time.”

“And that’d tire you out enough to sleep, would it?” There was definite amusement in her tone this time, and Bull cocked his head, curious.

“Sure. I think I could draw it out enough to exhaust the both of us,” he said, dropping his voice invitingly.

“Sounds like a good plan. It might disturb the rest of the camp, though.”

“I know how to be quiet when I want to.”

“ _You_ might, but have you ever heard a druffalo in rut? Sounds like Blackwall burping, but ten times louder.” She finally looked at him, grinning widely. “But if you’re really that desperate, there’s rope back at camp. I could lasso one for you, no problem.”

Bull laughed, surprised. “Ha! Generous offer, but you’re right. Wouldn’t want to upset the others.”

“I don’t think it’d be the _noise_ that’d upset them, Bull.” Her smile faltered and she looked away again. “Cassandra would be devastated to discover she’d come second to a cow.” Lavellan’s voice was too casual for it not to be deliberate, and Bull suddenly wondered if, after a year of ignoring her advances, she’d written off his flirting as a joke.

“Nah. She’s too busy mooning over Hawke to notice me, you know how it is.” And there it was. The sudden tense set of the shoulders, the flattening of the ears. Just when she’d finally relaxed, too.

“Yeah. Well. Everyone loves a hero.” Her voice was flat, and Bull leaned back, watching her. She was unhappy again, but he might as well make the most of it now that they were on the topic.

“I dunno,” he said. “I’ve had about as much as I can take. Varric was on about Hawke again when I left. Figured you’d be better company than another retelling of how she single-handedly fought off a thousand Qunari.”

Lavellan snorted. “Funny how all his stories end up with her saving everybody. You could almost believe that Kirkwall wasn’t in ruins when she finally left.”

“Yeah. I figure with an ending like that, how many other people’d she manage to piss off while she was there?”

No response, but Lavellan’s knuckles paled as she tightened her grip on the fishing line. Bull looked down, examining his nails. “One of her friends was Dalish, wasn’t she?”

“That’s what Varric says.”

“You heard differently?”

She shifted uneasily, bare toes curling against the ground as she rocked on her heels. “I do like Varric,” she said, hesitating.

She didn’t want to talk shit about a friend. Good to know. “Sure. He’s a good guy. Talks a lot of bullshit, writes a lot of bullshit, but I think he’s got our back.”

“Yeah... You think he’d have our back if it was between us and Hawke?”

Bull raised his head. “Probably not. Why, you think Hawke is setting us up?”

Lavellan shrugged. “Dunno yet. But stuff happened in Kirkwall that Varric never talks about.”

“But you know about it?”

She nodded, a quick jerk of her head. “News gets around the clans.”

“News about Hawke?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Because of her Dalish friend?”

She looked back over at him, tucking her hair back over her ear. “You’re the spy. Shouldn’t you already know about this crap?”

“Hey, you’ve seen my reports; they’re not that detailed. Most of the news out of Kirkwall back then was about the Arishok.”

Her face darkened. “Did that bother you?”

“What, the fight with the Qunari?” She nodded, and Bull thought for a moment. “Sort of. I don’t think I knew anyone involved, but the whole thing was a mess. Shouldn’t have happened, but that’s the antaam. They run up against a problem, first thing they do is try to punch a hole through it.”

“But it doesn’t get to you that she killed your people?”

“Not my people any more, boss,” he said, and the reminder wasn’t just for her sake. “But nah. Everything I’ve heard says they’re the ones who started it.”

Lavellan didn’t seem any happier to hear that, and she looked away again. For a long moment he thought she was going to clam up again, but before he could nudge her to keep talking, she sighed. “Her friend was a blood mage. She went with Hawke because her clan exiled her.”

“I knew about the blood mage part. But exiled, huh? That’s a big deal for the Dalish, right?”

A slight twist of her lips. “Being told you have to leave your people because you failed them and no longer belong? Yeah. Pretty big.”

Bull winced and Lavellan glanced over, looking apologetic, but he shook his head before she could say anything. “Yeah, I get it. So you’re pissed because she made friends with a Dalish traitor?”

“No.”

He sighed. “I can keep trying to drag it out of you if that’s how you want to do this, boss, but if you think we’re gonna have a problem tomorrow you need to tell me before we’re knee deep in it.”

Lavellan rubbed a hand over her face, then nodded. She crouched and tied the fishing line around the bucket's handle before wrapping her arms around her knees, balancing on the balls of her feet as she faced the water. She closed her eyes, lips moving silently, and Bull wondered if she was praying. She looked more vulnerable than she had any right to, huddled there in the wind, small and tired and lonely, and he fought down a sudden impulse to reach out to her. Whatever she was steeling herself to say, it was something he wanted to hear, both for his own curiosity and for her peace of mind. Maybe if she talked about it she’d stop looking so damn _sad_.

When she opened her eyes again her jaw was set. “Months before the rebellion started, Merrill—Hawke’s Dalish friend—went back to visit her clan. She summoned a demon and it possessed the Sabrae Keeper. Hawke and Merrill killed her.”

Bull nodded slowly. “That’s rough. Your grandmother’s your Keeper, right?”

“Yes.” Lavellan stared across the lake, fingers digging into her legs. “When the rest of the clan questioned them about it, Hawke attacked them, defending the traitor.”

“Did she kill them?” Bull asked quietly.

“Oh, yes. All of them.” Lavellan stood suddenly, looking like she was about to burst from trying to keep her voice level. “Anyone who was strong enough to fight back. Hawke wiped out an entire clan to protect a blood mage who murdered her own Keeper.” She practically spat out the last words, her fists clenched.

“That’s… well, shit.” She turned away from him, drawing a deep, ragged breath as she crossed her arms. “You’re right, I hadn’t heard that story before.”

“Yeah. Probably not the funniest one Varric knows. Doesn’t really make Hawke look as good as he’d like.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, shaking her head. “You know what the best part is?” she asked after a moment. “She went back to her fancy house in Kirkwall and everyone just kept calling her Champion. I don’t think she ever got punished for it.”

She swung back to him, her eyes furious and her fingernails digging little crescents into her folded arms. “Not a fucking wolf-cursed thing happened to her for killing a bunch of Dalish elves. No one fucking _cared_. Not until she started killing templars.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, shuddering as she let the breath go. “And I have to work with her because she’s the only fucking lead on the Wardens we’ve got.” Her anger was starting to drain away, and when she opened her eyes again she looked more hopeless than furious.

“Did anyone else know?” asked Bull, carefully. “If it was just Hawke and her friend, maybe she didn’t tell anyone?”

Lavellan shook her head. “Varric knows. I read Cassandra’s report to the Divine while we were still at Haven. Hawke told him about it, but he didn’t ever tell anyone but the Seeker. The only reason _we_ know is because the kids that got away crossed the Vimmarks and found another clan, and they spread the word at the last Arlathvhen.”

“Shit, boss. I’m sorry,” Bull murmured. “Did you, uh. Did you know anyone?”

She huffed softly at that, a half-laugh at something that wasn’t actually funny. “Everyone knew the Sabrae clan, Bull. Even shemlen. Even if they didn’t realise it.” He frowned at her—the name wasn’t familiar to _him_ —and she shrugged. “They were Darathen Mahariel’s clan.”

“Mahariel? Wait, the Warden?” He’d heard about the Fifth Blight even back on Seheron, but it wasn’t until he’d come south that he’d heard the stories about the man who’d stopped it.

“The Warden who killed the Archdemon, yeah. Saved Ferelden, died a hero, and then some shemlen came along and murdered the rest of his family just a few years later.” She walked over and settled on the stone ledge next to Bull, sighing as she drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.

Glancing down at her, he was all too aware of how small she was beside him. It’d be easy—too easy, temptingly easy—to put an arm around her and pull her close, offer to comfort her in any way she needed. In the year he’d spent following her around Ferelden, he’d never seen a single damned person reach out to the woman underneath all those titles they’d piled on top of her. He hadn’t heard any of this before, and he would bet that neither had anyone else. People kept her busy dealing with their problems, and they— _he_ —had never wondered if the Inquisitor had her own shit to deal with.

Bull twined his fingers in his lap, looking back out over the water. It was getting lighter as the evening drew closer, some of the cloud to the west clearing as the sun dipped towards the horizon. It cast a faint golden light that crept across the land, a last bright moment before night fell.

“Mahariel did everything right,” Lavellan said softly, after a few minutes of silence. “Not perfectly, but… He spent a year running around Ferelden, building this giant army out of nothing. This Dalish kid—he was eighteen, did you know?” Bull shook his head, listening. “He came out of nowhere, and a year later he had an army of dwarves and elves and shemlen all fighting for him. He died saving them all, got a state funeral and a statue and a bunch of songs written about him…” She shifted beside him, and Bull felt her cool skin brush against his arm. “But no one fought for _his_ clan. They still had to run to the Marches to get away from the darkspawn, and a shemlen who was _friends_ with a Warden didn’t think twice about killing them.” Lavellan sounded miserable, and he looked over at her again. Her head was resting on her bent knees as she stared across the fields. She wasn’t crying, but it looked like a near thing, and this time he really did reach out, slipping an arm around her and squeezing her shoulder. There wasn’t much he could say, but she didn’t need a response. She turned her head to look up at him and tried to smile, but it was a pathetic, cracked thing.

“No matter how good we are, how much we do, it’s not going to be enough, is it? Mahariel stopped the Blight and I’ll stop Corypheus, but we’re still just going to be rabbits and knife ears and…”

“Oxmen?” Bull suggested, wryly.

Another soft huff. “Right. Like we’re some sort of exception to our races—the _civilised_ ones—while everyone we grew up with is stupid or savage.”

Bull nodded, not bothering to try and deny it. People weren’t usually bold enough to insult him to his face, but it was always implied—the big dumb Tal-Vashoth, too distracted by ale and tits to hear what the humans were talking about at the next table. He’d learned to use it to his advantage, but the boss’d only been at this for a couple of years, and no one had ever trained her to not take shit personally.

She sighed softly, and Bull squeezed her shoulder again before letting go and leaning back on his hands. There was silence between them as they watched the sun dip lower, the wind falling to a gentle breeze that carried the scent of their camp fire. A pair of geese flew overhead, honking loudly, and came in to land on the far shore of the lake. You could almost forget about shit like demons and undead in a place like this, if not for the faint green tinge in the clouds to the south.

“Hey, Bull?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

“For what, boss?”

“I dunno. Listening. Asking in the first place.”

“No problem. You gonna be all right tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Probably. If I flip out and shoot her, at least you’ll know why.”

“No shooting Hawke, boss. If it’s between her and a demon army, I’ll cut your bow string myself.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“You just watch me.” Bull grinned down at Lavellan’s indignant glare and resisted the urge to ruffle her hair. “But, uh. You might want to keep an eye on your line, too,” he added, nodding to the bucket of fish. The fishing line she’d tied to it was pulled taut, and a sudden tug on it nearly tipped the bucket over.

“Fenedhis!” Lavellan swore and pushed herself off the ledge, scrambling over to the bucket and grabbing at the line. It was pulled too tight to undo the knot, and the moment she jerked it back, the fish she’d hooked started fighting. “Wolf fucking shit,” she muttered, drawing her knife and cutting the line close to the bucket, keeping a tight grip on what was left. Without the rest of the line to hold onto, though, the thin hempen string was almost pulled from her hands, and with another curse Lavellan leapt from the rock down into the reeds, wading out into the lake to get a better grip as she tried to reel in the fish. Bull stood and watched, laughing as he watched her fight with the fish, chest deep in water and swearing as a dark shape broke the surface, struggling wildly.

The battle between elf and fish took a good ten minutes, Lavellan slowly heaving it in every time it tried to dance away, and shouting dire promises of retribution if it broke her line. Bull offered as much helpful advice as he could, but somehow suggesting she try using her mark to stun it didn’t go over well. When the fish finally tired and she pulled it to shore, the boss whooped with glee and lifted it by the tail as it flipped around—a lake trout, almost as long as her arm. She dragged it awkwardly back to the rocks as it struggled, and Bull squatted down to take it from her in one hand, offering the other to help her back up. She grabbed his wrist, and his hand closed over hers, holding her tightly as he lifted her easily off her feet until she could get a foothold back on the rocks. She grinned up at him, happier than she’d looked in days, her cold little hand still clutching at his arm. “Ma serannas,” she said breathlessly, her face flushed and her green eyes brilliant, and Bull realised that she was soaked through—pale shirt wet and clinging to her brown skin, her damp hair curling.

He smiled in return. “Any time, boss,” he replied, letting go of her wrist. He pressed his palm to her back as he moved out of her way, his fingers curling around her waist; a lingering touch that could still be passed off as steadying her on the wet rocks, and he pretended not to notice her curious glance. “You want this, or should I chuck it back?” he asked, holding out the fish.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she said, drawing her knife and taking it from him.

They chatted idly as she killed and cleaned her haul, cutting them into long, juicy fillets of pink flesh. They’d make a good meal, and the boss was a capable cook. It wasn’t unusual for the camp to wake to the smell of frying fish, Lavellan having risen before dawn to catch and prepare breakfast. Bull’s stomach rumbled at the thought, and he realised how late it was getting. It was almost dark when Lavellan sloshed the bucket of water over the rocks, sweeping scales and guts back into the lake. She yawned, burying her face in the crook of her elbow as she bent over the fish.

“The big guy tire you out?” Bull asked, waiting as she packed up the fillets.

“Little bit. It was a good fight.”

“Guess that’s your druffalo, huh?”

“Guess so. One difference, though,” she said, hoisting the bucket in one hand and sheathing her knife.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to fuck my fish.” She grinned back at him before leaping down off the rocks and walking towards their camp.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This honestly started out as a PWP, but then all these feelings got in the way. I just rolled with it, and now it feels weird to tack on some smut on the end. So, I guess this might wind up having another chapter or two!
> 
> (I really wish they had addressed Hawke's actions if the Inquisitor was Dalish. A New Path is one of those quests that's stuck with me, and it's a shame the consequences went unmentioned.)


End file.
